


Counting Scars

by meanoldauthor



Series: Mean Old Lady [15]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Post-Game(s), Scars, Touching, Trust, do i tag tropes or do I have the lamest kinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 14:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11315718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanoldauthor/pseuds/meanoldauthor
Summary: A history lesson, of a personal nature





	Counting Scars

“Doesn’t matter where it came from,” Adal said. “It’s working.”

“Tech’s from Big Empty,” Ulysses said, arms still folded. He had removed his mask as they spoke, leaving his voice clearer. “Any gift from there has a price you won’t expect.”

“Can’t win with you,” she muttered, tossing another branch on the fire. It threw up sparks into the night, mingling with the lights visible in the Divide. “First you’re on my case about us not trading for crops. Now they’re growin’ like mad, and you’re second-guessing me to hell and back. Figures.”

He was quiet beside her, leaning back on the same boulder that faced the chasm. She settled back next to him, hands on her knees. “Thought you came to me to argue,” he said, mildly.

“Yeah, well.” She scratched behind her ear. “I can’t argue without gettin’ a little snippy. Keep asking questions. S’good for me.”

He caught her arm as she lowered it. She stiffened as he turned it, examining a fresh scar. “Hazardous work, farming?”

“Freeside’s still got plenty of junkies,” she said, and tried to pull away. “And all of ‘em are too strung out to realize jumping me’s a bad idea.”

“Hm.” He didn’t let go, running his other hand up her arm. It stopped on another mark, just brushing her skin. “And this?”

“Not the kind of questions I meant.” He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. “I dunno, it’s old. Got knifed or something. Think it was New Reno.”

He was gentle, holding just firmly enough that she didn’t resist, barely touching her as he searched for another scar. His hands were hard with callus, powerful, but treated her like something delicate. She tried not to shiver as he stroked under a set of slashes on her upper arm. “Deathclaw. Almost took the arm off.” He continued up, and she frowned. “Cut it out. I gotta leave soon.”

“Such history, just on your skin,” Ulysses murmured, deep in his throat, in that way that made her eyes unfocus a little.

“The hell brings this on?” she said, letting him caress her shoulder, feeling her breath catch.

“Can’t show an interest?” he asked.

She reached up to brush him off, and he caught her other hand. Adal had to sit sideways as he drew her closer. “Come on, man. If you’re doing what I think you are…”

“And what would that be, Courier?” He ran a thumb over the pockmarks on her hands.

“Murdered a cactus. Wasn’t always this old and wise,” she said. “You know, you got a really weird idea of romance.”

“Hm.” He touched a deep, curved scar, half of it hidden under her Pip-Boy.

“Punched out a window,” she said. “There’s better ways to get in my pants.”

“Is that what this is?” He let go of her arms, laying a hand on either side of her neck. His face was unreadable, eyes hooded. She felt the hairs on her nape lift up. 

“Most times men put their hands all over me, yes, it is.” Adal grabbed his forearms, keeping him from exploring further. “Whatever the hell we got is messy enough without you mixing it up more. Why this, why now?”

“Why not?” Ulysses was still for a moment, searching her face. Then, quieter, “Don’t trust me, touching you.” He stroked the line of her jaw with a thumb, pausing at a mark.

“Fistfight with a trooper,” she said, pulling away slightly. “You realize I wouldn’t let you this close if I didn’t?”

He nodded, conceding. “Last time… Didn’t go as I intended.”

“I _have_ had worse sex, you soppy bastard,” she said.

“Wary of me since,” he said. He reached up, gently brushing back the hair covering the scars on the side of her head.

“Three guesses, on those,” she said, pulling his hand away. “I ain’t much of a cuddler. Sorry.”

“Told me your pleasure was too near your pain, after,” he said. “Fought it. Denied it.”

“Got my problems,” she said. “I’ll sort ‘em out when there’s time. I’m running a whole damn desert, remember.”

“When?” He pulled his hands away, to rest on her crossed legs, and she still held them lightly. “You care for Vegas. But you neglect yourself.”

Adal frowned slightly, silent. He started to draw away. “So what are you up to?”

Ulysses stopped, searching her face for a reaction. “Would you trust me to show you?”

“Hell.” She shrugged, shook her head, and said, “Let’s see what you got.” She raised his hands, kissing them before resting them on her neck.

Adal might not have caught that flash of surprise, of pleasure, had he not been so close. He slowly slid the duster down her shoulders, finding a scar on the back of her neck. “Riot in Baja. Someone threw a rock meant for a trooper.” Down the curve of her shoulder, to a double crescent mark. “Some…I dunno, screwed up, inbred cannibal tribe in Box Canyon.”

“Truly?”

“Didn’t know if they wanted to eat me or fuck me.” A gentle touch on her lip, where it had been split. “Beats the hell out of me. Been punched in the face so many times, could be from anywhere.” Up to her cheek, under her eye. She snorted. “Got drunk and walked into a fence. I tell people it’s from a legionary.”

Adal tipped her head back, letting him trail down onto her chest, and a long, raking mark. “Tribal with a spear. In the Utah, before the Legion.” Another, thicker one, starting under the hollow of her throat and disappearing under the neck of her shirt. “Big Empty.”

“Yet you still trust them,” he said. He touched a thin scar on her throat as she tipped her head, reproachful.

“Seem to be trusting you, too, god knows why,” she said. “Had a knife held on me, back when… Call it a long time ago.”

“Surprised you let them,” he said. “The Lady of Vegas, at _anyone’s_ mercy?”

He had drawn closer still to see it, in the dim light. She sighed, trying to breathe out the uncertainty, and leaned in to kiss him. “Only when I want to be, these days.”

“Hm.” He ran his fingers through her hair, holding her as he kissed her back. His other hand went to her waist, slipping under her shirt. He found the burn trailing down onto her leg, stretched and distorted with age. She leaned back on her hands, pulling away. “Fire gecko. Killed it with a knife.”

“I’ve stopped doubting the madness you’re capable of.” She expected him to continue up, but paused instead with his hands on her belt, having felt her tense.

“I’m from a tribe of mad people, then. Ritual hunt.” She kicked off her boots when he glanced up, permission. She tried to breathe slow and calm her racing heart. “I seem to be the only one undressing, here,” she said. 

“In time.” She lifted her hips so he could slide her jeans off, hiding a shiver at the feeling of his hands through the cloth. What was he after, then? They’d both been filthy messes when they’d screwed before, after she’d dragged him half-dead to an auto-doc. Hell, maybe he needed a fight to even be interested? They hadn’t been at this long, so god only knew…

She waited for him to reach up again, take her panties and get to the point. Adal tried not to stiffen up as he stroked her bare leg, but he only drew them across his lap, holding her close. Her skin prickled in the cool night air, but his touch and body were warm. He followed the burn onto her leg, cut across by a newer one, hair-thin but deep.

“Sierra Madre. One of those stupid knives.” He ran his hands down further, caressing, rough hands following what curves she had. She watched him, eyes slightly shut. He was…huh. Gentle. He had been last time, too, but she was too distracted to notice. She never would have guessed it of him. In her experience, powerful men were too drunk on the fact, enjoyed their own strength as much as the actual fucking. 

He stopped at a pit in her calf, bringing her back to the moment. “Gunshot that festered.” He moved on, slowly, holding and stroking her with steady pressure. Those were the kind of large, hard hands that could hurt her, nearly take her apart. Instead, he was trying to feel every inch of her body, delicately, like he was trying to memorize her.

Ulysses was looking up at her, hand on her lower leg, a mess of scrapes and punctures. She had to lick her lips. “That’s a couple. Older ones are me trying to jump a barbed-wire fence and screwing up good. Newer ones are a dog bite.” Adal flinched as he felt he bottom of her foot. “You can go ahead and stop that right now. ‘S the other one you’re interested in. Stepped on a bit of metal, going barefoot.”

She jumped again as he examined it, scowling. He glanced up at her, and she swore he was grinning slightly. “Sensitive?”

“You can go fuck _yourself_ first, then.” Her hands were getting sore, and she rested back on her elbows. He traced a series of gashes below the knee. “Tunneler,” she said, eyes half-shut. Her shoulders unclenched as he felt the claw marks, the skin between them still sensitive. She could feel everywhere his hands had been, as though there were still a slight weight there. Strange. She wanted him to go back, start over, see if the feeling persisted or just got more intense…

She opened her eyes when he stopped at the knee itself, more scar than skin. “Slid down a shale hill. Still dig out bits of rock sometimes.”

He stroked along her thigh, sending a little shiver through her. “You mentioned having a better way,” he said, voice a low rumble.

“Mm,” she sighed. “Yeah, well… looks like you’re doing pretty good so far,” she said, looking down at him lazily. “Usually’d prefer not to go at it in the dirt, though.” She waited, tension creeping back, for him to feel the scar on the soft skin on her inner thigh. Ulysses ignored it, touching a knot of scar tissue on the meat of her hip. “Shotgun. Didn’t walk right for months, even without the infection.”

He lifted the edge of her shirt, paused, watching her. “You’d stop right there if I said?” she asked, voice a little huskier than she’d hoped.

“If you asked it.” He leaned back, but his hands left her skin slower, reluctant.

She took a breath. “Well, I didn’t ask you to.” Adal laid back on her duster, stretching her arms above her head as he pushed up her shirt. “Gunshot. Years ago,” she murmured, closing her eyes to focus on the feeling of him exploring her, stroking with flat palms, tracing the shapes of muscle and bone with the tips of his fingers. She only roused herself to speak when he paused, indicating a flaw in her skin, a question. A sloppy burn on her side. “Plasma rifle, I think. Forget when.” A spot where her ribs were uneven, a mess of scar over it. “Legionary with a ripper. Got stuck on the ribs, had to tear it off.”

Ulysses hissed a little, something like sympathy. She shivered as he felt the thin skin of her belly, so lightly he was barely touching her. “Old,” she sighed, as he brushed a mark at her waist, tracking past her navel. She opened her eyes enough to see him silhouetted against the fire and dim Divide stars, leaning over her. God, but he could hurt her. He was stronger, faster, had wanted her dead once. He’d tried to be gentle last time, but even then had held her hard, left bruises. And here she was, laying in his lap as he fondled her, half naked, vulnerable. She shouldn’t be enjoying this.

He caught her looking and paused, fingertips just resting on the edge of the wrap on her chest. “Why?” she asked.

“You don’t want me saying the word,” he said, archly. She rolled her eyes. He settled his hands lower, watching as he followed the line of her ribs. “Don’t need to hurt, courier. Show you that, if I could. Pleasure, without pain, without waking memories best left to lie.”

Adal tried to smile, small and bitter, but it didn’t stay. “We’re both some kind of fucked up, huh?”

“More concerned with you tonight,” he said, still caressing her slowly.

She sat up, and he hid a flash of disappointment. “Hey. If you get to sit there and try’n fix me, only fair I get to turn it around.” Adal pulled her shirt off, sliding further into his lap, legs trailing to one side. “You’re enjoying this.”

He shifted to lean back, leaving her nearly laying on him. “Are you?” He felt good against her, warm, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, arms around him.

“More’n I expected,” she said. He ran a finger down her spine, and the thick scar there. “Big Empty. Again.” A broad, straight gash across. “How long?”

“Full width,” he said, tracing along it.

She snorted, bumping her head into his. “ _How long_ since you done something like this?”

Ulysses paused, resting his hands flat. “Years,” he said, head bowed so she felt his lips brush her shoulder. “Long years.” He stroked his hands up her back, hard and gentle and sending a frisson over her skin. “Didn’t have so many scars.”

She held him a little tighter, tucking her face against his neck, braids brushing against her cheek. “Time was, none of us did,” she said. He sighed, and she felt him nod. He tapped at the gash. “Lanius.” Up to a numb spot on her shoulder. She frowned. “What’s that one look like?”

“Cuts, all running parallel,” he said, following the line of them.

“Mm. Broken bottle. Bar fight.” He felt a ragged divot taken out of the muscle on her back. “Gecko bite,” she said, eyes closed. A tidy semicircle, just above it. “Had a long fall. Landed on a bit of pipe.”

He drew trails between the bullet scars, only stopping on the largest or deepest, everywhere he touched left with a warm pressure. She mumbled an answer for the scars she remembered, less intelligible every time. Adal felt him shift under her, and lifted her head sluggishly. Ulysses pressed her back down, the familiar weight of her duster settling on her shoulders.

“Soppy bastard,” she sighed, curling up closer to him. He put his arms around her, holding her as she drifted off.


End file.
